


Driving Me Wild

by nautilicious



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Demisexual Jack, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bittle swings his leg over the seat, his thighs spreading open. Jack swallows.</p><p>(Or, Jack sees Bitty on a motorcycle and it ignites his pants pretty much on the spot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driving Me Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to airynothing and pawspaintsnthings for hand-holding and feedback, and to urbanhymnal for advice on blushing. PS Bienenalster is a terrific beta & I love working with her, pass it on!

Jack, engrossed in photo editing, ignores the growl of a motorcycle outside his window. The lacrosse guys get all sorts of visitors; as long as no burly biker dudes try to cause trouble at the Haus it’s fine. He ignores the hoots and hollers until he hears Chowder shouting. Jack sees Dex in the driveway, helmet tucked under his arm while Chowder babbles at him. Dex ducks his head and smiles. Nursey, never far away when those two are around, stands with his hands in his pockets. Jack suspects he's trying to look cool, but it’s hard to out-cool the guy with the motorcycle.

Jack goes downstairs, camera in hand. Shitty and Holster are on the porch and Jack can't find the thread of the conversation in the noise. He doesn’t see Bittle and ignores the quick flash of disappointment—is he still in the kitchen? Then Bittle stands up from where he’d crouched by the engine.

“Sweet ride, man!” Holster says.

“Classic symbol of sex appeal,” Shitty adds, “and a freaking ‘swawesome one, I must say.”

“It is a very nice bike,” Bittle says warmly. It’s similar to the enthusiasm he displays for fresh strawberries or when peaches go on sale; Jack didn’t expect to hear it applied to a vehicle. Jack inspects the motorcycle. It’s black and chrome and says “Yamaha” on the body, but he thought Japanese bikes were the ones in action movie chase scenes, that you had to lean over to drive. This one could easily belong to a beefy man in a leather vest, and he wonders where Dex got it.

“It’s my cousin’s,” Dex tells Bittle. “Brand new. You have to break in the engine, get it up to specific speeds and stuff. She's still learning how to drive and isn’t ready to take it on the road yet, so she asked me to do it.”

“Let me guess,” Nursey says. “One of your uncles repairs bikes.”

Dex flushes like Nursey said something insulting. “As a matter of fact, yeah,” Dex says. “He’s a mechanic, so I can fix cars, too. Can you change your own oil, Nursey?”

“Eh,” Nursey says. “Life’s too short. I’d rather pay someone who’s trying to make a living. And man, I hate getting grease out from under my nails.”

Dex bristles, and Jack knows how it will play out: they’ll exchange jabs and chirps, and they’ll end up wrestling on the lawn unless Chowder defuses the whole thing. Jack doesn’t care, because all he can see is Bittle gazing across the lawn with smoldering eyes and parted lips. Jack has often wondered how Bittle might look if he wanted someone to fuck him and he thinks he’s seeing it now. Aimed at Dex.

Dex is attractive, Jack realizes, and he and Bittle have spent a lot of time together. The Frogs tend to cluster around Bittle—he’s constantly advising them or feeding them, usually both at once—and Jack had thought nothing of it. Now, though, Jack remembers a few times in February when he walked in on Bittle and Dex talking in the kitchen, their voices low and serious. Bittle trusts Dex with his precious oven. When Dex got sick, Bittle snuck into his room to deliver food and medicine. Jack tallies up the hugging and the hanging out, and, shit. Jack holds the camera tightly enough that the plastic digs into his palm. How did he miss it?

All semester, Jack has tried to convince himself that if he pressed Bitty up against a wall and licked into his mouth, Bitty might moan into it. That if Jack took Bitty out for coffee, Bitty would know it for a date, even if no-one else could. That if Jack could figure out what he had to offer, Bitty might be open to it.

All those hopes come crashing down as he watches Bitty gaze at Dex. Bitty wears his feelings on his sleeve, and Jack can see which way the wind blows. Because Bitty—Bittle, dammit—has never, ever looked at Jack all hot-eyed and covetous like that. How could Jack have imagined that Bittle might want him? Jack isn’t even in his league. 

“Dex,” Bittle says throatily, and Jack goes half-hard in his pants. That’s—that’s a bedroom voice. Bittle will ask Dex to give him a ride and then he’ll rub up against Dex’s back and breathe in a bunch of pheromones, and Dex will gratuitously rev the engine and Bittle will be overcome with lust, and then he’ll take Dex upstairs and ride _him_ , and Jack will have to hear it across the hall for hours, because who wouldn’t keep Bittle in bed for hours? Jack has lost his chance because he’s a goddamned coward—

“Can I take it for a spin?”

Jack nearly drops his camera. Holster and Shitty fall silent. The Frogs untangle themselves from whatever noogie/hug situation they’ve gotten themselves into. Everyone stares at Bittle.

“You—you know how to drive it?” Dex asks.

Bittle nods. “Racing dirtbikes is popular back home.”

“Damn, Bitty, you raced?” asks Holster, warmth warring with admiration in his tone. “That’s like, advanced bro skills, dude.”

Bittle pinks up a little. This does nothing to help Jack will away the bulge in his sweats. He keeps his camera in front of it.

“I wasn’t allowed to race ‘cause my mama put her foot down. But when my cousins rode their bikes all summer she couldn’t keep me from joining them.”

“I would let you.” Dex sounds regretful. “But you’d have to have a license, you know, for insurance, because it’s not mine.”

Bittle reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and hands it to Dex. “Class M, printed right on it,” he says. “I’d’ve driven a bike if I’d stayed in Georgia, it’s so much cheaper, and you can drive year-round. Let go of that idea when I got accepted to Samwell because only crazy people drive in snow.”

“I shouldn’t,” Dex says. “But I have to admit, I’m kind of curious to see you on a bike, Bitty.”

So is Jack, if you replace the word “curious” with “desperate.” Then he hopes that Dex says no, or Bittle changes his mind, because if Dex wants to see Bittle on a bike it’s probably for the same reasons Jack does. He’s certain that Dex won’t be able to resist Bittle once he sees him on the motorcycle, and all the dancing around each other they’ve done will culminate in some horrible rom-com scene on the lawn that Jack will have to watch.

Jack reminds himself that he’s never heard Dex say he’s gay. Just because Jack might have a heart attack if he sees Bittle astride anything, full stop, motorcycle or no—doesn’t mean that Dex feels the same way. If Bittle has an unrequited crush then Jack might still have a chance.

Bittle grins. “Let me put on my shoes.” He darts over to the porch and pulls on his sneakers. Shitty murmurs something to him and Holster slaps him on the back. Dex gives him the key. He swings his leg over the seat, his thighs spreading open. Jack swallows. Bittle fiddles with something on the body of the bike, turns it on. When Bittle grips the handlebars, the muscles in his forearms ripple. He backs the bike out of the driveway, waves at them, and then takes it slowly down the street. The sun lights up his hair. Why isn’t he wearing a helmet?

“Damn,” Shitty is saying. “Just, damn, dude. Bitty looks _fly_.”

“I _know_ ,” Holster says.

“It’s so macho,” Chowder says. He sounds awed. “Sometimes I forget that Bitty isn’t just cute.”

Dex elbows him. “You aren’t supposed to think other guys are cute, dude.”

Shitty mimes blowing a ref’s whistle. “Penalty, dude! Anyone can think anyone is cute!”

Shitty drops some bon mots about the oppression inherent in heteronormativity and Dex argues that he meant that one shouldn’t say _out loud_ who’s cute when they all have to share a locker room. Jack listens absently, keeping an eye on the street. He assumes that Bittle will go around the block, but nearly ten minutes pass before he comes back.

Bittle, wind-blown and grinning, pulls expertly into the driveway to cheers. Jack snaps half a dozen photos. He pretends that he’s capturing the black gleam of the motorcycle in the sunlight, but the lens focuses on Bittle, tousled and happy.

“Anyone want a trip around the block?” Bittle asks. “If you don’t mind, Dex?”

Dex crosses his arms. “I only like tits pressed up against my back,” he says. “So be my guest.”

Bittle makes a tsk sound, and Shitty clears his throat, but then Chowder says, “I will! I love motorcycles but I’m too scared to drive one.” He clambers on behind Bittle. “Helmet for you, Chowder,” Bittle says, and Dex hands it over. Chowder puts his arms around Bittle’s waist, scrunches himself down, and they’re gone. Bittle takes it slow but Jack hears Chowder’s excited whooping carrying down the street.

Shitty goes next, in his boxers, though he puts on boots to keep from burning himself on the tailpipe. Even Holster has a turn, “purely for comedy value,” he insists. He’s right; it’s ridiculous how he towers over Bittle. Shitty approves of the reversal of masculinity norms and takes a picture for Lardo. When they get back, Holster plays up how high he’s had to tuck up his legs to fit on the bike, and lets his dismount take him into a pratfall.

“What about you, Jack?” Shitty says slyly. “Gonna take a ride?”

Jack knows that Shitty means it exactly how it sounds. Bittle’s eyes widen, and Jack can’t tell if Bittle wants him to or not. He shouldn’t, because it’s difficult enough to interact with Bittle already; he should, because it’s turned into a team bonding thing; but it might be dangerous; but Holster will never let him live it down if he doesn’t—

Bittle smiles, slow and saucy, and the tumult of Jack’s thoughts stops. “I promise I’m a safe driver,” he says.

“Yeah, Bits gave all of us a ride and we liked it,” Holster says, all faux innocence. Nursey sniggers. Chowder shushes him.

Innuendo usually makes Bittle stammer. His skin flushes so delicately that Jack always wants to trace the line of pink with his mouth, to see how far it spreads past Bittle’s collarbone. This time, Bittle does not blush. He sits with easy confidence on the motorcycle, his smile infused with something darker than amusement. He holds Jack’s gaze in a way that’s both a dare and a promise.

“Okay,” Jack finds himself saying. He hands Shitty his camera before climbing on awkwardly behind Bittle. His knees cage Bittle’s thighs. Jack has to avert his eyes from where straddling the bike draws Bittle’s jeans tight against his crotch. There’s a handle behind him; he grabs it so that he doesn’t end up plastered against Bittle.

“No,” Bittle says, “You’re too tall to ride like that.” Bittle grips Jack’s arm, winds it around his waist. “Like this.”

This is such a bad idea.

“The other one, too,” Bittle says, and Jack gives in. He ignores the jokes and commentary from the lawn and wraps his arms around Bittle. He can feel the muscles of Bittle’s stomach through his thin shirt. It would be so easy to tuck his fingers inside Bittle’s waistband, to touch that warm skin.

“Now lean forward.” Bittle sounds breathless. Jack feels a little breathless himself as he allows his chest to settle against Bittle’s back. He tucks his chin over Bittle’s shoulder.

“This okay?” It comes out rough, right in Bittle’s ear, and Jack takes a dark satisfaction when Bittle shivers. Maybe Jack can’t compete with how Dex roared up in the driveway like a ginger James Dean, but Jack is the one with his hands on Bittle.

“Yes,” Bittle says, his voice a little quavery.

Bittle has as much self-assurance on a motorcycle as he does in a kitchen; he drives with the same effortless competence. Any other guy might show off, taking sharp turns or swerving, but Bittle keeps their speed steady. The sun warms Jack’s back, and the wind feels good in his hair. The world smells of cut grass and wildflowers. Happiness bubbles up inside him. It’s _fun_.

“I’m gonna take you on a curvy bit,” Bittle warns, and then he’s easing them into a turn. Bittle corners like a champ, not too fast and with complete control, but Jack clutches at him instinctively.

“Do what my body does,” Bittle says.

Jack tucks his face into Bittle’s hair and pretends it’s because he doesn’t like the wind in his eyes. He mirrors Bittle’s subtle movements, leans when he leans. Jack feels the shift of Bittle’s hips as he changes gear, the flex of Bittle’s shoulders as he steers. Bittle is in charge; Jack’s only job is to follow. He gives himself over to it. When they click, when the motion of the bike and the motion of their bodies lines up perfectly, Jack feels it so keenly that he bites his lip. A low whisper of sound escapes him and he hopes to God the road noise covers it.

“That’s it!” Bittle says. 

Jack can smell him, an intoxicating mix of sweat and sweetness. The engine vibrates between his legs. The sensation goes from mildly pleasant to more compelling as he gets turned on again. Christ, this is the worst possible time to have an erection; there’s no way Bittle won’t notice it. He tries to surreptitiously shift his hips away, even though he’d rather press into the swell of Bittle’s ass and bite the tender place between Bittle’s neck and shoulder, see if Bittle can keep that impressive control.

Jack goes over his favorite hockey play. He revises the outline for his honors thesis. He thinks about pancakes—no, that’s no good, because Bittle makes excellent pancakes, and Jack wonders what it would be like if he made them wearing nothing but his frilly apron, in a house that Jack owns, that maybe they share—Damn it. Finally, in a moment of pure desperation, Jack recalls the old outhouse on his grandmother’s property. It helps.

They’re a few streets over from the Haus when Bittle pulls into a cul-de-sac. He swivels the kickstand down but keeps the bike running. “Put your feet on the ground,” Bittle says, so Jack does. “Now let go of me.”

Jack releases Bittle, confusion churning in his belly. Before Jack can figure out what to say, Bittle slides off the bike, turns, then climbs back on. He spreads his legs wide enough to slot Jack’s knees between his thighs, bringing them face to face. Jack’s mouth goes dry. Bittle is inches away from being in his lap and Jack can’t decide what to do with his hands. Jack is definitely not considering kissing Bittle on the back of a motorcycle borrowed from Bittle’s crush.

“Just how much do you like motorcycles, Jack?” Bittle tries to make it a chirp, but Jack recognizes it as an out.

Jack’s face burns. Bittle isn’t stupid; he’s figured out Jack’s pathetic crush and now it will ruin everything, on and off the ice. Bittle will be kind, his eyes gentle and his excuses considerate—Bittle will be flattered but not interested, and so earnestly invested in staying friends that everything will be a thousand times more awkward. 

“Sorry. Vibration or something. Accidental,” Jack says. He’s counting on Bittle to let him save face because he can’t handle spending the next few months living with Bittle’s pity. Jack supposes he can avoid him until graduation. Senior year deadlines can provide lots of excuses.

Bittle tilts his head, a hint of mischief curling the edge of his mouth. “You know, I think the vibration might be getting to me, too.”

Jack blinks. He resists the urge to glance at Bittle’s crotch.

“You can tell me that speed turns you on, too, and I’ll forget about it,” Bittle says carefully. “It’s just physiology. We’ll both feel embarrassed but we’ll get over it because we care about staying friends. Or...”

“Or?” Jack says. His voice sounds hoarse.

“Or,” Bittle says, and then brushes his lips against Jack’s. Jack barely has time to register the sensation before Bittle pulls away. Jack has no idea what his face looks like, but Bittle’s forehead wrinkles and he says, “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I thought, uhm—let’s forget I did that, okay?”

Bittle shifts his weight to dismount. Jack grabs his arm. “Wait,” Jack says.

A little voice in Jack’s head insists this is a ploy to make Dex jealous, or maybe a response to the thrill of driving a motorcycle—Bittle hasn’t gone on a date all semester, he’s probably as pent-up as Jack; what’s an accidental erection between friends? Bittle has kept himself on the “friend” side of the line this whole time; Jack shouldn’t dare to hope. Bittle wants to pretend it didn’t happen; Jack should let him.

Jack tells the voice to shut up. For all that Bittle can be easy with his affection, Jack knows better than to believe Bittle would ask for casual makeouts, not from Jack. Nor is he manipulative. That kiss means something. Jack wishes they didn’t have to talk about it; he’d rather drag Bittle into his lap and kiss him senseless. Surely that would make things clear? 

“What about Dex?” Jack blurts. A drop of sweat runs down his back. 

“What?” Bittle asks. His confusion seems genuine.

“I thought you...uh, liked him.”

Bittle raises his eyebrows. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“You had this expression…” Jack feels foolish as soon as he says it.

Bittle laughs gently. “Honey, no. I was looking at _the bike._ Dex is not at all the kind of guy that draws my eye.”

“Oh,” Jack says. He feels an unfamiliar lightness in his chest. “What kind of guy draws your eye, then?”

Bittle rubs his palms against his jeans. Jack realizes that, if he has read the situation right, he’s asked Bittle to do the emotional equivalent of daring a hulking forward to check him. Jack attempts a reassuring expression but his stomach is fluttering so much it probably reads as queasiness instead.

“Looked in a mirror lately?” Bittle says at last. “Pretty much that.”

Jack memorizes it: Bitty's brown eyes wide and chin tipped up, his gaze fond and certain. The sun gilds his skin, and Jack wants to spend hours finding every freckle it will leave behind. His heart races. He doesn’t have the words for everything welling up inside him so he leans over and kisses Bitty, sweet and slow. Jack wants to kiss Bitty for about the next twelve years, but they’re on the street with the motorcycle still running. He pulls back reluctantly.

Jack likes how Bitty has gone dazed and soft. When Bitty licks his lips Jack tracks the movement, wants to taste him again. Not for the first time, he wonders how Bitty might look in bed, all that lovely dusted-peach skin waiting for Jack’s mouth. It seems unbelievable that he might get to find out.

Bitty’s expression sharpens, turns serious. “Jack,” he says. “Tell me this isn’t just a motorcycle lust thing.”

Jack frowns. “Does it seem like motorcycle lust?”

Bitty’s shoulders tense. “I’m messing this up, I’m sorry; I just—I thought you were straight, or, well, mostly straight, and that if you did like guys, you liked, uhm, not guys that look like me. So you can see how I might think it’s situational, you know? It’s okay if it is, but I can’t—“

“Bittle,” Jack interrupts. Fuck, Bitty is brave. Jack wishes he had the perfect thing to say, but he can’t encapsulate the jumble of thoughts and feelings that rush through him when he thinks about Bitty. Jack knows one thing for certain, though, and he wants Bitty to know it, too. 

“I don’t usually like anyone. Uh, romantically, I mean,” Jack says. “But I like you.”

Jack has seen Bitty happy—after winning a game, after mastering a new pie, after kegster dancing—but this eclipses them all. The sheer delight on Bitty’s face dazzles Jack, as brilliant as when the sun kisses the Pond.

Bitty goes all pink around the edges, and then, oh, Bitty looks up at Jack through his lashes, dark-eyed and knowing. “Not even a tiny bit of motorcycle lust?” Bitty teases. “I could have sworn I felt something in the turns…”

Jack has to catch his breath. “I like how well you drive,” he says.

The smile Bitty gives him is _wicked_. “I noticed. Why don’t you let me show you how much I liked having you all up against me like that?”

It seems as though every erection Jack suppressed in the last twenty minutes revives at once. Jack wraps his hands around Bitty’s hips without a second thought. Bitty inhales sharply, scoots forward. Jack lifts him up, drawing him in until Bitty’s ass snugs right against Jack’s dick. Bitty bites his lip, gives a little wriggle. Sensation rockets through Jack; he curses softly and he can’t tell if it’s in English.

Bitty crashes their mouths together. It’s all teeth at first, Jack’s nose smushed funny, and then Jack tilts his head so their lips meet in a hot, wet slide. Jack licks inside Bitty’s mouth the way he’s wanted to so many times, and Bitty makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat. Jack wants him to make it again.

He wants—God, Jack wants Bitty so much he shakes with it.

“Bitty,” Jack says. At the sound of his name, Bitty grinds down on Jack and whimpers. Jack thrusts up against him reflexively and they both groan. Jack’s lack of control shocks him. He should stop, get them off the street at least, but Bitty’s hips fit so neatly between his hands that he can’t bear to let go.

Jack draws Bitty in for another kiss, trying to slow things down so they can untangle themselves long enough to get to a bed. Bitty refuses to be gentled. He winds his fingers through Jack’s hair and kisses Jack like he’s trying to convince him of something. Jack tastes longing in it, its fierce ache familiar from so many months of holding it back. A small part of Jack doesn't want to let himself believe it—Bitty can’t possibly feel what Jack feels, Jack never gets to have what he wants so easily—but Jack’s body believes it; he’s embarrassingly close to coming in his pants.

He thinks again about stopping; they’re in public, and they haven’t talked about all the possible complications, but then Bitty gasps out Jack’s name, high-pitched and trembling. He ruts against Jack in quick, determined movements and Jack can’t think any more at all.

The motorcycle rumbles beneath them as Jack thrusts up into the seam of Bitty’s jeans. The heavy fabric is rough against his dick, almost painful, but the way Bitty pants out sharp little noises drives him wild. Bitty’s ass is as small and solid as the rest of him and Jack knows he’s holding him too tightly but he can’t stop. It feels so good that Jack barely realizes he’s going to come before it happens, a bright flare of completion that takes his breath away.

Bitty makes a small, desperate sound, and reaches down to grip his cock through his jeans. Jack hisses as Bitty grinds against his softening dick. Jack is still out of breath, a little overwhelmed by the intensity of his orgasm, and how Bitty looks right now does not help him regain his composure: Bitty’s hair is damp with sweat, his eyes squeezed shut and his head thrown back. He seems right on the edge, and Jack wants nothing more than to see him go over. Jack puts his hand over Bitty’s, presses the heel of his palm below Bitty’s fingers. Bitty’s mouth falls open on a long, low moan. Jack watches Bitty’s orgasm roll through him, his face so beautiful in ecstasy that Jack’s heart trips in his chest.

Bitty leans his head down on Jack’s shoulder. “Goodness,” he says at last.

“Looks like I’m not the one here with motorcycle lust.” 

Bitty pops up his head. “Oh, Lord. Don’t you dare chirp me about this, Jack Zimmerman. Most every young man gets a little excited about _some_ kind of engine. Bet you had a thing for zambonis.”

It’s weak, as far as chips go, but Jack lets him have it. “But it wasn’t just the motorcycle,” he says instead.

Bitty smiles at Jack softly. “No, it wasn’t,” he says. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

“Me too,” Jack says.

The silence between them expands comfortably, full of words content to remain unspoken. Jack wants to learn how to say all the things Bitty makes him feel, but for now he rests in the quiet joy resonating between them.

Bitty’s smile suddenly shifts into a giggle. “Oh, dear.” He reaches out and fusses with Jack’s hair. Between that and the damp patch on the front of his sweats, he won’t be able to get back in the Haus without everyone knowing what happened.

As if reading his mind, Bitty says, “The wind messed up your hair, of course, and I have an idea about your sweats.”

“You want to hide it?” Bitty lives his life so openly, Jack hadn’t thought he’d be willing to keep something like this a secret.

“Don’t you?”

Jack considers. “I don’t want to,” he says, “but I have to. At least for now.”

Bitty nods. “I know. We need to have a long talk about that. Until then, I’ll just say: I don’t mind doing what you need. As for the rest...”

Bitty gestures at the lawn across the street, its vibrant green color undoubtedly due to the sprinklers spraying water into the air. Jack grimaces. He’s not looking forward to being on the motorcycle with wet skin, nor the chirps he’ll get from everyone when they arrive. Bitty slips off the motorcycle and picks up the sprinkler. Jack grits his teeth as Bitty douses him with the spray. Then Bitty sprays the motorcycle, and surprises Jack by dousing himself. He gives an adorable little shriek that makes Jack wants to kiss him all over again, not to mention the way his damp shirt clings. Jack wonders if they can sneak away after they get back, if Jack will get to strip Bitty out of that wet clothing...he catches Bitty’s eye, deliberately licks his lips.

“Oh, my,” Bitty says. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but I definitely want to find out.”

Jack smiles at him. He knows it’s a ridiculously besotted smile; thank God Bitty’s answering smile is just as soppy.

“Home, then?” Bitty asks.

“One more minute,” Jack says.

Bitty leans into him, winds his arms around Jack’s neck. Jack doesn’t know what will happen next, but he can’t bring himself to worry about it. Not when he has Bitty in his arms. They kiss, honeyed and unhurried in the sunshine of a spring afternoon, and Jack’s heart is full of light.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Troye Sivan's album "Wild" on repeat while writing this story; cue it up for all the CP feels (thanks to merozu for posting about it). The [title track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3awzvNrKDsg) is especially suited to a motorcycle ride with your crush.


End file.
